I'm in the same boat as everyone else in a strange tipping point future. A little more narrow-minded perhaps, as the subtle difference between Recheis' spelt croissants and the naughty, unimaginative Alnatura dramas in Pastablairwitch is sadly stuck on my tongue. It is an explosive era for dandies. For us there are no rare earths.
And I'm running
Changeling Weather June
allergic through the nose. Important senses are thus overwhelmed, as is my minimal consensus dancing and bluffing so delightfully and full of life, that you managed that da da da, embarrassing yesterday. I am horny and wet of life. Let's go study in the bushes.
We'll look back later and see what differences and coincidences there actually are between my rebellion and my depression. A trauma is just a dream with an A, one could say like a goblin.
I always write into the thicket, without an introduction. I tend to go off on a tangent, but when precision is added, this golden, shining happiness, then everything is on the highway to improvement.
Basically a climb and to shine in the level cap, I trick my way through, that's my archetype, isn't it. The Robin Hood mechanisms take effect, morning sites are only partial aspects, the multi Bloggen picks up speed, pushes me with my soul into the spotlight, into the glow of the social.
Out into the haze, the reporting begins with the little things, how to organize the morning. The fact that the Internet is very useful, which leads back to the dispatch of the same name, to this work shopping, one must be grateful for the thousand-leaf goodwill of the German meaning of the word, which I fry into Chinese like an overexcited hope of making something whole out of the whole. Seriously ill with One Planet, by the way.
And sometimes I just accept the spelling mistakes as Jungian typos and I don't care what someone makes of what I offer them, they should just rub themselves and blush against it according to their values, it is unmistakable that I am playing with marked cards, that I reload reality until it corresponds to my deepest joys and desires.
Groundhog Day damnation, in Mongolia the cattle have the plague.
I want to walk precisely from this hamstered consumer idiot coma into the shining mountains, carve words out of the face of a prophet of the twilight and distribute them among people, make them viral, energize them. I also want to prove a little that everything is possible, at any time and that neither young nor old people have to accept being an egomaniacal self gone wrong.
And to do this, I read cards or consult Chinese oracles, make my own, spend a quarter of the day in a reprogramming semi-trance, start social enterprises, travel around, scale and act, observe and penetrate.
I stop at nothing, I am in the midst of my own neediness, I enjoy some aspects immensely, others are so tough, such a rehashed dilemma, and just when I am enthusiastic I shit the biggest pile.
For example, when the Osho Tarot wants to offer me the nonsense of the Master card, you tell me what you and all the other masters can do, you Rolls Royce giggling pseudo-guru, you should be ashamed of your abilities, we don't need masters per se, and certainly not ascended ones who don't even live to be 80 and fail at projects that any better corporation can effortlessly succeed at.
To do so little with so much is astonishing. Even your disciples of today can do better. Which in no way detracts from 70 of the 78 cards, you just have to clearly state where the pile was thrown.
Complete overestimation of one's own abilities, and I know all about that, lol, but no wonder when they pray to you as if you were anything other than a positive psycho. At some point I'll get angry when they research this assessment, whatever. Then it'll be the turquoises' turn again, the other sect in the grain.
This daily journey to the Orient on a sober, almost relaxed awakening, on the dragon of words, this flight between all possible times and distances, a little bit repeating and tired sometimes, topped today with Joy and Success.
The world has become a whiteboard for me. My whiteboard, and the world is your whiteboard. And that brings us deep into
Matrix Whispers
On this particular day, I want to fool around under palm trees. Putting all the projection aside, I want to produce something good and lasting.
Develop my gifts in the left place. Develop, use and communicate basics like the Master Tape or the Bucket List Deliverer even better. Finally understand the dating thing. Somehow I'm a misfit and that seems like a waste despite my modest, shy warmth.
Chatted with a business grandma, she lived in New York for ten years and pointed me to Couchsurfing. Of course and absolutely. Because it corresponds to everything that I want to promote. And we rightly agree that AirBnB is just another consumer idiot trap. The travel bug is one topic, but it is also exciting how easily the world turns when you let it turn.
And of course, in moments that are hardly mentioned, Covid-19 is vigilantly raging in the air, making new friends and companions. Mallorca invites the biggest idiots on the planet and is surprised when rules are broken.
This conversation has been coming up for two weeks and I've been extremely successful at avoiding upcoming conversations, almost a Bill Gates of avoidance. Which, however, reframed as one of chocolate cake picking. And I seem to be being passed on by Grandma either way. Let's see if it's a yuppie from the I Understand Academy.
In Living Easy, by the way, right and left procasting becomes postponement while you can. The argument is one against neoliberalism, which is behind so much blatant psychofuck.
Why all these detours just to be mindful, the real thing, not the pseudo mindful thing that steals your life time in an almost insanely stupid way, but you don't have to listen to all this stupid chatter since headphones were invented. Neither in fashion nor in public.
You feed yourself and it is better to feed yourself with selected food. Even in trams. Is the smartphone a nuisance? The real nuisance is the mindless conversations of our fellow planetary inhabitants. In Austria they put some of the most stupid daily newspapers on the planet next to the tram as a free product. What does that tell us?
Do you now understand my need to become more antisocial? However I wanted to say and point out that allowing can be a central element, at least I am pushing this thing called automated glory. Allowing all necessary and desirable events to occur in a more or less automated and relaxed manner.
The overwhelmed or at least struggling consciousness retreats into the second row, organizing, but ultimately one recognizes in the gentle use of life around how perfectly everything falls into its best possible realization if one only intervenes to a limited extent and only shapes the framework. Far from losing the ego, we simply leave the whole to the whole. New coding of the deeper structures of our mind and beliefs appears highly
Hyperyogi
and needs a little better substances for full success.
And the famous instructions for use. I am meanwhile in the midst of modern magic, which has been as important to me as writing itself for the past forty years.
And I think that both are in good hands in the Bloggen. What makes things interesting is the WEB AS A MULTIPLE BOMB.
When I think about writing a book like Revolution and at the same time it becomes clear that it will take 2, 3 or maybe 5 years, then the old feedback route would be anathema to me.
The new thing, the interaction with the future readership, with all the wonders waiting in my head ready to be picked, the millinery(!) is only its first expression.
Vintage and old school, retro trends are nice gestures to the transhuman postmodern era, but please feel free to explode in a relaxed manner, but livestock farming is just as outdated as old forms of writing books. The Remington is not the only thing that should be replaced.
Every day I get a little stress relief from the Stress Office. It's a witch's house just outside the Megaverse, the fairy godmother sits outside and distributes mailings about everything that is needed to be a good Tinkerbell.
In the house itself, Captain Hook is starving in a cage. She is an extremely tempting fairy godmother, and depending on her inclinations, she can also seem quite dark. And I am no different from all those who are half awake. I am fascinated by this gingerbread house and grateful for help in this murderously endless infinity.
I call it the last illusion. Be polite, but reject the offers. Because behind this mirage, this Fata Morgana, everything is waiting for you. Nothing is true, everything is permitted. The great god Pan, the forbidden consequence of all research. Megaverse. And for some, Covid.
